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The bunker feels empty, he feels empty. There’s a coldness that he hadn’t related to this place since they found it. Even the warmth that he had purposefully created by nesting is gone. He can’t find it in his room, or in the kitchen; even Baby feels colder for being inside the garage. It doesn’t feel quite like home anymore.
Sam doesn’t help. Well, the thing following Sam around like a duckling doesn’t help. Still, he thinks that avoiding his brother is easier than avoiding “Jack” would be if he were to turn his attention to him. But the bunker is not as big as he wants, and every time he ends up bumping into someone, he feels the air go colder, and the space getting smaller.
He has to leave, he needs to take a break. Part of him screams that he shouldn’t leave Sam alone with the thing that...with that thing. But he knows what will happen if he tries to convince his brother to leave with him, and he doesn’t have the energy for it.
So, he leaves. He fills a duffle bag with clothes without really looking, he also grabs a couple of guns and knives, just in case; he’s not packing for a hunt, he’s packing to just take a break, if such a thing is even possible at the moment.
Right before he heads to the garage, he considers that he should probably leave a note for Sam, so that he doesn’t get his breath of fresh air cut short by his little giant brother going all mama bear on him; so he heads into the kitchen instead, sighing in relief when he finds it empty; it is three a.m, too late for anyone else to be awake. He grabs a pad they use to make their shopping lists and thinks what would sound calming and non-suspicious. He comes out blank. Every excuse and explanation would sound alarming with the way Dean has been acting ever since...yeah, he knows that any situation where he was on his own would have Sam running right behind him. So, maybe he doesn’t have to go fishing, or to a bar, or just drive around skipping his favorite songs because he can’t bear the sound of them anymore. Maybe he can go somewhere more solid, somewhere warmer, somewhere with people he can stand to be around.
The answer to that is the last place Dean would’ve thought had all those things: Jody’s.
It isn’t like he didn’t like visiting them, or like he wasn’t way overdue to do so, given everything that has happened. It is that he had been avoiding someone in that house for a while now, and as the days go by, the guilt pooling in his gut grows more and more. She probably knows already, Jody would’ve told her . And that thought doesn’t reassure him in the least. But part of him thinks that her being angry at him is better than the way Sam looks at him sometimes; when he thinks Dean is too drunk to notice or to remember, he gives him a look that makes him want to vomit, it’s the same look he used to give his brother after Jessica died, the same look he gave him after Madison. There’s concern in the look, but there’s also pity, there’s also an acknowledgement that he doesn’t know how it feels; because, at the time Dean gave that look to Sam, he hadn’t had a relationship that lasted longer than two months and his brother had been with Jessica for over a year. Now, it had been years of having and not having something with...
Being with someone who blames him as much as he blames himself starts to sound better the more he thinks about it. Anger he can handle, someone screaming and even hitting sounds so much more preferable than dealing with his brother and his puppy dog eyes and his insistence on raising the actual fucking anti-christ.
So, Jody’s it is.
He scribbles down on the pad: “Went to visit Jody. Needed a break from babysitting Damian. Feel free to call her, but please don’t come over. Don’t get killed by it while I’m out.” He takes the note and places it on the coffee maker to make sure Sam sees it right after he wakes up. For a fleeting moment, he thinks about Jack finding it first, and he feels a small satisfaction at that before he sighs. He really needs to leave.
He picks his bag from the floor and heads into the garage again.
Calling Jody to ask her if he could stay over slips his mind until he’s an hour away from Sioux Falls, and he pra...really wishes that she doesn’t say no, because he really doesn’t have a plan B for this. Hell, Sam probably already called her .
“You’re sleeping on the couch.” Is the greeting he gets when she answers after the second ring. Sam definitely called her already. “And you’re going to help around the house. This isn’t a motel.”
He smiles at that, a small, barely there smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Yes ma’am”
She hangs up after that, the faint sound of a chuckle making its way to his ear before the line cuts off.
Everything feels better already. It is not good by any means, but it is warmer. The thought of sleeping on a couch in a house with two teenagers and Jody manages to sound like a more breathable space than the bunker with his own memory foam bed in his own room.
As he enters the town, he shoots her a text and asks her if she needs him to pick any groceries before he arrives. ‘You’re gonna wish you didn’t ask.’ Is the response he gets.
He enters the store and sighs, trying to decide if he should pretend to look at the other aisles before heading to the one he’s actually here for or go directly to it to make this go as fast as possible. He decides to get some candy, following the vague memory of movies he pretends he doesn’t like and picks a couple of bags. Then he goes to the section where his other purchase is.
Jody was right .
The line is not long, it just feels long. People are not turning to look at him, he just feels like they are.
Maybe he should’ve gone to the deli section and picked a steak or something; but, as soon as the thought comes to him, he feels ridiculous. It wouldn’t just be a weird as shit combination, even gross, but it would also have the words “overcompensating” written all over. There’s nothing wrong with what he is buying; Jody is letting him crash at her house with barely any notice, this is the least he can do for her in return.
The woman at the checkout rings everything with automatic movements, barely looking at the things that pass through her hands, and only looks at him so she can tell him his total. Dean pays, grabs the bags and gets to the Impala and the world doesn’t end. Now in his own space, he can laugh at the heat that he feels on his face and at his obvious exaggeration of the entire thing. He’s still alive, still himself. Plus, he’s still the dude driving the muscle car, if anyone were to make a comment about this particular supply run.
He parks and grabs the bags from the front seat. He hears the door open and sees her come out of the house in her pajamas, arms crossing as she stands right in front of it, waiting.
They both stand there, almost frozen, staring at each other with blank expressions.
After calling Jody, he figured she would’ve told her he was coming over and, for some reason, expected her to leave the house for at least a while, if not for as long as he stayed, but he was wrong.
When it doesn’t look like she is going to scream or punch him right away, he decides to keep walking. Right when he’s a few steps away from her, she snatches one of the bags and goes inside, seemingly waiting for him to follow her. He notices with a small (very small) amount of relief that the bag that he is carrying is the one with the candy and she leaves with the other bag to another room.
When enough time passes to make him think that she probably locked herself in her bedroom or even went out through a window, Dean goes to the kitchen, wondering if he should call Jody now or just make himself busy for the rest of the day. Then she comes back, her clothes changed into jeans and a hoodie. Oh .
“Thanks for that,” she mutters, and she looks a bit embarrassed.
Well, at least he’s not the only one.
He could make a joke to clear the air, but that would probably end with him getting stabbed or kicked out of the house. So, instead, he opens the bag he left at the counter and offers her the comically huge bag of peanut m&m’s and that makes her chuckle.
“You really came prepared”
He smiles at her, but when their eyes meet, her expression changes, making him falter.
She comes closer to him, not breaking eye contact and looking more and more serious. Here it comes; let it all out, kid . She stops right in front of him, and he can see how red her eyes are and the tears are slowly building up on them. But she doesn’t say anything, she just looks at him with those blue eyes and that makes this more painful.
“Claire,” he breathes, not knowing what he’s going to say, but needing to say something. “I’m so sorry...”
The hug takes him by surprise. Out of all the responses he imagined she would have, this one was not one of them; it is too quiet, too peaceful. More than hearing her, he feels her sobbing, something deeply pained and unrestrained that gets swallowed by his shirt.
For a moment, he thinks of trying to keep it inside, to just hold her and wait, but he’s not with Sam anymore, he doesn’t have to hide everything right now. The moment he has that realization, his own tears begin flowing and his arms get tighter around her. At some point, he starts to repeat a string of I’m sorry’s into her hair.
Then she pushes him a little and he gives her some space, his arms still on her shoulders. But she doesn’t stop pushing. The pushes become small punches. This is more along the lines of what he expected, so he stands there, waiting, his arms not letting go of her, not even when her voice finally raises in the empty house.
“I told you,” she lets out sobs in between the words. “I fucking told you to keep an eye on him!”
The words hurt more than the punches, but he holds on, he waits as she repeats her words over and over, her hands losing strength and voice going sore. Finally, he doesn’t know how long after, she crashes against his chest again and his arms tighten once more. He kisses her head without thinking about it and his own sobs seem to echo when he whispers “I know, I’m so sorry, Claire. I’m sorry.”
More time goes by before they separate again, this time fully. Her eyes are bloodshot, and his are probably too. They each take a moment to clean their faces with their hands; and they take turns in going to the bathroom to splash some cold water on their faces.
She grabs the forgotten bag of m&m’s and goes to the living room, expecting him to follow behind. The silence that falls on the house feels almost natural after the sudden outburst of movement and crying words and they sit together on the couch, each taking turns in grabbing fists of candy from the bag laying between them in the cushions.
After a while, she turns to him, making him do the same.
“Is it true?” She directs the question at the blue m&m between her fingers. “Did he do it for his kid?”
Dean wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t like the way it sounds, “his kid,” as if that thing was in any way related to him. It sounds so wrong that he almost lashes out at her. But when he looks at her, her knees gathered in her chest and her blue eyes trying really hard not to fill with tears again, he can’t.
If anyone was his kid, it was Claire. He remembers countless of late night conversations in the bunker’s kitchen, plans that they always left for later, plans of asking her to stay there. He remembers going through the hall of rooms, opening each one and assigning in his head a place for her. The conversations always ended with them deciding it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to leave Jody at that moment, that they could probably do more wrong than right. But he likes to think of the way those conversations began, not how they ended. He likes to think of those moments they both acknowledged her to be theirs, in that bubble that they formed while sitting with only the other as company, no one to ask the implications of their words.
So, instead of yelling or leaving, he just shakes his head and looks down.
“That thing, the kid or whatever,” he takes a breath, swallowing most of the venom that threatens to seep through. “He made promises to gain his faith.” He shakes his head at the memories flooding in. “He took him away from us.” From me , “and made him choose him over us.” Over me .
He knows that the way he’s speaking is confusing, but he can’t bring himself to say Jack’s name to her, and he can’t bring himself to even think…
A small huff comes out of her nose and when he lifts his head, she’s looking at him with her head tilted. And that hurts.
Before he asks her what she finds even slightly amusing about what he said, she starts talking.
“It’s funny how that happens.” She eats the m&m in her hand and takes more before continuing. “How sometimes people love their partner more than they love their kids.” There is some venom in her tone, but he can tell it is not all for him. Amelia . “I guess I never figured Castiel would choose his child.” The ‘over you’ goes unsaid as she looks at him, her hand going to her lips as she eats another candy.
At any other time, Dean might’ve hurried to correct her or anyone who made the implications she is making. But this is not any other time. So, instead, he thinks about what she’s saying, he thinks about Amelia and thinks about Jimmy. He thinks about Jimmy giving up his life and his body so his child could be free. Then he thinks of Amelia losing herself to grief and abandoning Claire. There’s a pang of guilt in thinking poorly of the woman, when he knows he’s one of the people who ruined her life.
“Sometimes I feel bad,” she says, as if reading his mind. “She tried to do the best that she could with a fucked up situation.” Her words start to echo in his head. “And I should really not blame her for getting killed, of all things.” She huffs again, humorless. “I mean, she gave up her life for me, how fucked up is it that I think of that as abandoning me?” She looks away to the turned off tv. “But I do. Because it feels like she only did it so she could leave, so she wouldn’t have to stay with me, behind, just itching to go back to him.”
Her words make his head race through memories, and through thoughts, through years and years of his own guilt ridden anger. He doesn’t like to talk about it with Sam, he knows his brother has forgiven their father many times over and, despite what it seems at times, he really doesn’t want to fight with him.
But he’s not with Sam right now.
“I don’t think I’ve ever talked to you about my dad, Claire.” He meets her eyes and their blue somehow grounds him. “He was the one who got us into this life, after our mom died; and, for years, I convinced myself that what he did was to keep me and Sam safe, but I guess I always knew, deep down, that if he could’ve chosen between us and mom...” he breaths in when he sees her nodding, understanding. “He went to hell to save my life,” he swallows around that memory and everything that it unleashed afterwards. “But it felt like he just did it so he wouldn’t have to carry all this weight anymore.”
In all the years since his father spoke his parting words, since he made the deal with Azazel and since he clawed out of hell to help them defeat the demon, Dean hasn’t allowed himself to tell this to many people. He couldn’t really tell his brother, after he hoped in the “the best he could” train. The only person he knew would understand was…
It almost felt wrong to sit with Claire and talk like this. Out of the two, he was supposed to be the mature one, the one that scolded her for having such a poor image of her mother. But with just them sitting there, he couldn’t stop thinking about how much they had in common and how much of her pain reminded him of his own. In here, he could stop pretending he didn’t see her as his own.
“I guess that’s one of the reasons why she needed him,” her tone is no longer angry, sounding almost relieved that he understands. “Jimmy put me first and she would put him first.” A sad smile appears on her lips. “A happy balanced family.”
Those words have him thinking of his mom; and that seems more unfair. Unlike John, Mary had been there for them not so long ago. But Claire is looking at him expectantly, wanting him to keep sharing with her.
“I-” he starts, his throat closing slightly. “I don’t think we had that.” The admittance sounds too loud, but he wants her to hear him, so he doesn’t lower his voice. “I think my mom also loved him more than she loved us.” The words fall out of his mouth with all their weight and he realizes he’s never told anyone that.
He looks up at her, almost expecting her to look at him with pity. Instead, he sees her jaw tense, her eyes looking deeply into him, unblinking. She is angry. She is angry on his behalf.
There is so much that he could say about it. He could explain the deal she made with Azazel, the way she seemed to be ready to parent anyone who wasn’t them, the way she kept leaving. They reminded her too much of the life that she had lost, of the family she had. He had sometimes wondered bitterly if she would think the same if his father was still there. But all of that is too much for him to unload on Claire, who looks angry enough with the little he has said.
He moves the bag into the coffee table and reaches for her so she can lay her head on his shoulder, but she opts to place it on his chest, placing her arm across him. He hugs her back, staying there for a few minutes, silence feeling like relief.
He knows it won’t last, it can’t last. Him staying here is temporary. He is going to have to go back to the bunker and to Sam...and to Jack. The nights of him drinking himself to sleep are not over, neither are the times he punches the wall in an attempt to have a single source of pain, instead of aching all over. He is well aware that he’s not fixed, he’s not happy, he’s not complete and he never will be again. But he has her now, here; and she has him. They both have someone who understands in more ways than one the way the other feels. They both lost the same person and, while he meant different things to each of them, they can mourn him as a family would. They can mourn him as father and daughter.
“If it had been for you, I would understand.” He whispers the words right above her head, burying his face in her hair, closing his eyes and trying not to cry again. “I would understand if Cas chose you over me.”
Claire gives him a small nod in response, pulling him tighter. It is not long before he feels her tears on his shirt, but neither of them comment on it.
Truth be told, he doesn’t know if that would happen, if he would be able to not hate her if he had died for her instead. But he can say it, and it can sound like the truth at that moment. The same way that the entire day had felt true.
Just a father going to the store to buy pads for his kid, grabbing some bags of candy to make her feel better. Arriving home, talking, hugging, falling asleep on the couch with the comforting weight on his chest, knowing that she’s safe.
Neither of them can begin to make it better, but they can keep each other company while it is wrong.